


over futile odds (and laughed at by the gods)

by littlemagician, orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Australia 2015, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemagician/pseuds/littlemagician, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't gentle. It's open-mouthed, desperate and <i>them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	over futile odds (and laughed at by the gods)

Losing is hard, there is never easy way to go through it. It is a weigh on your shoulders when you try your hardest and you don’t make it; it’s the breath knocked off your lungs when you come second, close enough to almost taste the melted gold of a victory. They say it is hardest to lose to your worst enemy, but not many people know what it’s like losing to Lewis.

(Not this close, anyway. Never this close. Not many people know what it’s like to feel destined to this, to always come close behind him, to take a step back and watch him glow like a god, watch the people below as if they were mere mortals next to him. Not many people know what it’s like to be close to him, to have a destructive hope to beat him, to know that _a little more_ and they could. Lewis is but a man, he’s not invincible. But not to Nico. Never just that to Nico.)

He doesn’t hate Lewis. He’s tried, pretended, but it doesn’t come, it never comes. He knows what he feels, knows the word to it, but it’s bitter in his mouth and it bites his skin and claws at his chest, and it’s so similar to hate sometimes that it had been easier to pretend. He knows, though. Lewis knows, too, although he suspects he also finds it easier not to touch it, to pretend as if it doesn’t go that far.

However, Lewis has never been as good as him at pretending. Lewis has walls built around him and a pose, but Nico knows him, and Lewis is but a man. He wears his hurt in his skin; he turns it into an armor. Lewis conquers.

Nico is just a man, but he’s never going to be Lewis. So it’s easier not to look at him, when the race is over and he’s smiling, when he congratulates Vettel and him; the sun shining down on Lewis like it belongs there, like it all belongs to him. (Maybe it does. It probably does. But he throws champagne at Nico and doesn’t give up on him, so it’s impossible not to smile. It’s impossible not to let Lewis lure him in again, impossible not to fall –)

 _‘Don’t pull this shit on me, Nico. Not again. We said we weren’t going there anymore.’_ Later, he pulls Nico by his sleeve and drags him to a corner where no one’s looking. It feels familiar.

 _‘We’re not. It’s just easier – not looking at you. Not seeing your face.’_ Nico explains. He sees Lewis eyes flash with something, but he doesn’t put a name to it. (They don’t do that, never name that, but he knows.)

 _‘If you do that, if we go there again –‘_ He breathes, and they’re close enough Nico can feel his breath hot in his skin. (Don’t name it, he remembers).  _‘You promised me. Don’t do that. Look at me.’_ He says, almost pleads, and Nico does. Lewis clashes their lips together, and it isn’t gentle. He has in his fists has a handful of Nico’s racing gear soaked by champagne, pushes him against the wall, presses their bodies together without giving Nico a chance of moving away. It’s open-mouthed and desperate and _them_ , so much that he feels it at the bottom of his spine. He bites at Nico’s lower lip before he lets go. (It hurts, and Nico wants it to, he wants more.)

Lewis doesn’t look for him again, not in Melbourne. Nico likes to pretend he’s not waiting.

 


End file.
